


Homeward Bound

by Sixpence



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:22:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixpence/pseuds/Sixpence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those Halcyon years in Kirkwall have come to a premature, bittersweet end. Now on the run, Hawke makes Fenris promise one thing - if anything should happen to her that he will protect Bethany, even if it costs him his life. Not knowing how such a promise could change his future, Fenris agrees - and, thrown together by unforeseen twists of fate, he and Bethany end up on the road together. Little do they know that, in each other and in heading home, they may find the healing that they've been searching for. Fenris/Bethany, probably 2-3 chapters when finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homeward Bound

"Marian! _Please_!"

Bethany's voice is high and desperate, and Fenris winces to hear it. He knows that her objections are nothing to do with his character, but the young mage's blunt refusal to let him escort her is uncomfortable nonetheless. For the fourth time in the past hourglass, he wishes that he did not have to be present for this.

"Bethany, you have to understand," Hawke says, _also_ for the fourth time, or perhaps by now it is the fifth. Her face is drawn with worry, and Fenris wonders if he's ever seen her look so tired.

Of course they're all tired. Not even a full day has passed since Kirkwall's Chantry building was reduced to rubble; since the Knight-Commander fell to the lure of Bartrand's accursed lyrium idol, since the High Enchanter Orsino spilled his blood to demons. Night has fallen, black as old blood but they're all still awake as though it's the middle of the day; making hurried preparations to leave before the Templars declare them all anathema and have them arrested for their involvement.

Madness. It's all madness.

"I'm not _saying_ that I'm going anywhere," Hawke reiterates, and she pauses in the hurried shoving of clothes into bags long enough to throw her hands in the air in frustration. "I'm just trying to make preparations. If we're separated – _for any reason–"_ she stresses, as Bethany opens her mouth to object, "you are to go with Fenris. He will look out for you until I can join you again."

"And I'm sure that Varric, or-... or Merrill can do the same," the youngest Hawke objects. Fenris is doing his best not to eavesdrop (though he's sure the whole neighbourhood can hear), but he cannot help but note with amusement how the sisters share that same stubborn frown; the one that they pit against each other now until Hawke eventually sighs and looks away again.

"No, they can't," she says, giving her now-empty clothing chest a stubborn kick and making the lid fall shut with a decisive _thunk_. "Varric's flighty – I can't predict where you'll end up with him. Merrill's returning to her clan and _no_ – Isabela already left the city an hour ago – and I just. Don't. _Trust_ your safety to anyone else, Bethany."

Bethany's done nothing but fight her sister up until this point – they've fought and argued in the way that only siblings can, exhaustedly circling the same point around and around until they begin to crack with tiredness. Bethany is the first to crumble; she has not had the same practice at plastering over the chips in her veneer that Hawke has. She falls silent: the first hint that weariness has caught her up. Then she raises a hand to her face – tiredly drags it down and _sighs –_ and silently casts Fenris an apologetic look. She knows that the elf no longer hates her with the vehemence that he did when they first made acquaintances, but he is still a poor substitute for her sister.

And Fenris is aware of that.

_Maker_ , is he aware of that.

"Fine," Bethany says eventually, and Fenris can almost _feel_ the surrender in her voice as though it is something tangible. He knows that it is not safe to leave the either of them alone right now, but he is also already uncomfortably intruding, and without a word he slips out of the room.

" _Fine_ ," he hears Bethany say again, as he pulls the door closed. "But on one condition, sister. We don't _get_ separated in the first place."

\--

Their quick escape of Kirkwall turns out to be a prudent move. Hysteria and riots over the fate of the Chantry are enough to keep the Templars busy until dawn, but the moment that the sun returns to the sky there are guards at Hawke's door, armoured men in Anders' Darktown hovel and soldiers scouring rooms at the Hanged Man. No building goes unsearched if it will turn up even just one of Hawke's companions. With the exception of Aveline, who opts to stay behind for damage control, they are all long gone from the City of Chains by the morning.

There is no time for formal goodbyes, and with a sad lack of ceremony the group disbands. They are all disquieted, but Bethany more than most; at first, she had been unsure if any of them would see her as anything more than 'Hawke's little sister', but with time the group has become a core of support for her, especially through those years where the Circle had claimed possession of her.

Isabela is the first to leave; in true fashion she'd had a ship lined up for her before the rest had even finished packing, and disappears without so much as a 'goodbye' or 'thanks for the memories'. Anders – shaken and ashen-faced and mumbling apologies – all but disappears from the face of the earth, and Sebastian, cursing every pig-headed Ferelden who would not see justice done on his murdered Chantry family, storms from the city before the rubble has even finished smouldering.

Bethany will not forget the look on his face. A good few of those Kirkwall years have been spent admiring – in more than one way – the handsome Starkhaven Prince; it is sad to think that there is no middle solution that would have pleased all of them.

Varric and Merrill are the last to leave. They accompany Hawke, Fenris and Bethany out of Kirkwall; they walk with them in subdued silence until the Wounded Coast begins to turn into the lower slopes of the Vimmark Mountains and only then does Varric tell them that he's offered to take Merrill to the Dalish clans in the border lands. After that the farewells are brief and solemn and Bethany can't remember exactly what was said, only that once they're gone from sight she wishes that she'd said more.

\----

It takes only a week before their group of three becomes a group of two.

They're barely halfway through the mountains when a group of whooping bounty hunters catch their scent. Fenris has known for days that they are being trailed, and Hawke has set up nightly watches, but somehow they are all sleeping when the first arrow strikes, the tip of it striking deep into Fenris's shoulder where he dozes mid-watch against the trunk of a tree. He is awake in a flash – his hand finds Lethandralis's hilt before he is even fully on his feet, and he curses his own stupidity first before he even lets himself make a noise of pain around the wooden shaft protruding from his flesh.

Then the hunters are upon them and Fenris kicks Hawke awake. There is no time for kind words or gentle shoulder shaking and even as she spits a curse at him for the rude awakening he swings Lethandralis over her head, cleaving a man through from shoulder to sternum. Only when he heaves the blade free – dragging splintered bone and blood after it – does the gravity of the situation sink in and Hawke scrambles to her feet, grabbing her sister out of harm's way.

"Fenris," she shouts, and her voice cuts through the air sharper than any mercenary's knife can. "Take Bethany, get out of here!"

" _What?_ " Bethany is wide awake now – Fenris has already grabbed for her, and he immediately regrets it when her elbow connects with his nose. " _No!_ Sister–!"

"Bethany, be quiet!" There are too many men – too many people with a light in their eyes that shines with the bloody desire for the fame and coin that will come with dragging the disgraced Champion of Kirkwall back to the city – and even a greenhorn fighter would know that three people weary from goodbyes and travel could not stand against that number. Still, Hawke isn't a normal person, and she moves with a litheness unbefitting of her tiredness to duck a blade and drive her own into a man's chest. "Fenris – take her. I'll lead them off and join with you later!"

Fenris's heart kicks inside his ribcage, and he's sure that it's not just in protest at the arrow embedded in his shoulder. At his wrist burns a scrap of red; faded with the years but still the same colour as the blood in his veins, the heart in his chest and the slick of guts on his blade, and it whispers to him _Stay, because she would do the same for you,_ at the same time that his head screams for him to follow orders and Bethany begs for him to disobey.

The gravity of the situation offers no respite for rational decision making, and it is on a spur of the moment decision that he grabs Bethany and slings her over his shoulder, even as _she_ screams and his _heart_ screams and knows that he'll regret leaving the moment that his brain catches up with his body.

But even as he turns tail and runs – _like a coward_ , his brain chides him angrily – he can feel Hawke's gaze burning into his back, satisfied and triumphant, and he knows that he has made the right decision. Hawke is strong. She is fleet of foot and sharp of wit – if anyone can lead a merry dance around a group of coin-starved sellswords and then find her way back to them, it is her.

\----

He doesn't even realise that there is no way for Hawke to find them until they are too far away to turn back.

He does not know how long he has been running for; his lungs burn, his shoulder burns, and Bethany is still shouting, burying him under enough curses that even the Maker would have a hard time saving him from them. She has her staff – Hawke must have made sure that she had it before ordering her taken away – but for all her hatred for him she cannot smite him, would never smite him, but her fists pummel useless bruises against his back, and her tears won't stop flowing.

"What are you doing?" she demands fiercely; her voice hoarse for all of her shouting, oblivious in her upset to the men it might bring down on their back. "We have to go back! She _needs_ us!"

Fenris knows. Fenris _knows_ and it is agony because he would never have left her if he had the choice. But the cargo that he carries is precious – Hawke has made sure that _this_ , if nothing else, is drilled into his mind.

Hawke had never asked him for a single favour before that night in Kirkwall, but when she'd sat him down and begged him to protect her sister, even if that meant laying down his life for her, he would not have been able to refuse. To Hawke, Bethany is worth more than either of them – she is worth more than the stabbing agony of the breath in his lungs, worth more than the arrow that still sticks from his shoulder like some macabre banner. He has not yet found time to stop and pull it out, but Bethany is worth more than the relief that it will bring, too.

And Hawke is worth more than anything Fenris has ever fought for before. If she has asked it of him, even if it means running from her in a time of need, he will do that, too. And spend every evening in self-chastising penitence until she finds them once more.

"We cannot stop," he reminds the young mage, a little tersely, grimacing as her small fist finds an old bruise on his spine. "Not yet."

"Then put me down and _you_ can keep running," she hisses. Fear for her sister makes her words sharper than she intends them – she feels him flinch beneath her at the tone in her voice and immediately feels guilty for being the one to have caused it. She knows that he is acting only on Marian's orders, but much as she hates him for it she can feel his muscles growing tired beneath her weight, can hear the way that his breath grows more laboured with every forced step.

Eventually, her anger begins to recede.

"Stop," she says quietly, and when he doesn't, she thumps his arm for his attention. " _Stop_ ," she says again. "Fenris. Put me down – you need to rest."

Fenris's ears droop a little in irritation – _Funny, I've never noticed they do that before,_ Bethany thinks to herself, though really she's never even been this close to him before – and before she can think too hard on that he has suddenly stopped beneath her, and she is dumped rather unceremoniously onto the forest floor.

"What in the Void was that for?" she demands, rubbing her backside as she pushes herself back to her feet.

"For punching me," Fenris says, collapsing sideways against a sturdy tree trunk. He is panting like a horse pushed to its limit, but even despite this the ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

Bethany has to push her irritation to one side. He has carried her all the way here, and he is injured besides – it might be worth finally heeding Marian's advice and trying to curb her tongue a little. It's bad enough that she's stuck out here with him – she can only imagine what it would be like being stuck out here with him when he's in a bad mood.

She looks up to see him starting to shed his armor, and for one ridiculous moment feels the urge to tell him that it's not the time to start undressing. But then she realises that the arrow has found its way in through a gap between breastplate and pauldrons and by the way that he is gingerly removing each piece, she knows it must have struck deeper than she had originally thought.

"Here, let me–" she begins, only to be cut off as he grasps the wooden shaft in both hands and snaps it in half. His face pales beneath his tanned skin and hers pales even further, and she's moved forward before she even realises what she's doing, batting his hand away. "Now look what you've done," she lectures. "The last thing we need is you bleeding to death..."

"Then I will stitch it," Fenris tells her flatly. He is too stubborn to accept her help – perhaps too defiant, too set on being the one in control of the situation – and before she can stop him he deftly digs his own fingers into the wound, grasping the arrowhead embedded in his flesh and wrenching it out.

"Fenris–!" She knows that the panicked rise to her voice gives her discomfort away – she feels the blood drain from her cheeks even as it blossoms across his undershirt.

Not half so perturbed as she is, Fenris presses his fingers to the wound, staunching it. "Do not fuss. I am fine."

"You are _not_ fine," she tells him, and with tenacious determination she grabs his wrist to halt him.

She does not realise what she has done until his whole body goes tense beneath hers. The brands beneath her fingers flare – spark up in response to the mana in her own skin – and she can practically see the age-old battle between _fight or flight_ panicking behind his eyes.

She freezes.

She has overstepped a line, this she knows – no one touches Fenris without his permission. Even Marian, the woman he loves, keeps her distance when he does not invite her closeness.

Marian would have known better.

_Marian would have known better._

Two hours on her own with the cagey elf and she already thinks she knows him – how stupid can she be?

It is with a stammered apology that she releases him again, her heart pounding against her ribcage. If he did not hate her already he must hate her now – this foolish, useless replacement for the other sister that he'd rather have by his side. It is bad enough that any person might grab him unwarranted – worse yet that that person might be a mage, an object of his already-sharp derision.

"I'm sorry," she stammers, clutching her traitorous hand back against her chest as though it might move of its own accord again. "I didn't mean–..."

There is a wary tenseness to Fenris's jaw, and he draws a slow, steadying breath through his nose. _He's trying,_ Bethany realises suddenly. She hadn't realised until that moment that perhaps he is just as disturbed at this whole situation as she is. He cares for Hawke just as much as Bethany does; she has forgotten that in her own upset.

"It is fine," he says eventually. His voice is bland, afraid of upsetting her more than she already is, and his gaze is set fixedly on the floor, as though he is too ashamed for having let her sister down to look at her. "You do not have to apologise."

Feeling a sudden stab of empathy for this man, she reaches out again, gingerly, though she does not go so far as to actively touch him. "Fenris," she says gently. "We can rest here. Let me see to your shoulder."

Blood-slicked fingers still pressed to the wound, his gaze flicks up towards her, just for a moment, and his face is pale beneath its tan. Blood rushes in his ears, louder with every heartbeat. He cannot tell if his ears are failing him or if the thundering in his head is drowning everything else, but he cannot hear what Bethany says next and he shakes his head, apologises, and has to ask her to repeat herself.

"You should sit down," Bethany says carefully.

He hears her this time, but is too busy staunchly trying to steady himself to listen. Stay conscious. _Stay conscious_. The idea of letting something like this knock him out is mortifying. Vertigo grips him and shakes the strength from his legs, accompanied by a dizzying wave of nausea that grips his stomach.

"Or you could faint instead," she says, as he hits the ground.

\----

When he comes to again, Bethany is =considerably calmer. The sky is beginning to grow light – he does not know for how long they were running, or how long he was unconscious for, but if it is already dawn then he hopes that their hunters will have given up the chase.

He has been moved onto a dry bedding roll – one of the few things that he had managed to grab in the scramble to escape their camp – and he reaches one hand up to touch at his shoulder, surprised to find the injury neatly stitched and bound. She has not healed it with magic – for the briefest moment he worries that she may have been hurt in the escape, and he has been too concerned with himself to notice.

Before he can ask, Bethany has seen him stirring, and she is at his side, her gentle hands lingering over the bandage. Doubly wary since her mistake the previous day, she does not touch him until she has checked with him. "May I look?" she asks.

He would rather have made sure that the wound is clean himself, but she has taken good care of him so far, and he can imagine that the chore is a welcome distraction from worrying about her sister. "You did not heal it," he remarks, letting her help him sit. He is not comfortable with being in such close proximity to others, but he does not do her the disservice of outwardly flinching.

Her smile is a quietly self-deprecating one, and her hands are gentle as she lifts the gauze.  "You've never let Anders heal you before," she remarks. "I didn't want to presume."

Fenris cannot help but look at her. He has not realised that Bethany had paid so much attention – it is true that he has always shunned Anders' aid in favour of stitching his own wounds, but he had not thought that any mage might have respected his desires in face of the convenience of magical healing, especially if he was not conscious to object.

Realising that he is staring, he knots his brows into a frown and looks stubbornly away. "Thank you," he manages. "That is... kind of you."

"It's no more than you've done for me," she murmurs, and this is an olive branch if ever there was one because she is the one who has fought the whole way, who has insisted that she neither wants nor needs Fenris to care for her. It is the closest that she can come to thanking him with the grief of their separation from Marian still so fresh in her mind.

They sit in silence for a while, as she cleans old blood from the wound and checks that the stitches are still neat. The more that she works, the deeper the line between her brows grows – he can tell that she is thinking hard from the gradual intensifying of her frown, and he is practically counting down in his mind the seconds until she speaks.

When she does, it is preceded with a quiet sigh and a deft knot in the freshly-tied bandages. "Where will we go from here?" she asks.

It is a question that Fenris has already anticipated – the young woman is stronger than he once gave her credit for, and he knew that it would not be long before she was looking ahead instead of backwards once more. It is also, unfortunately, a question that he has no answer to. "I do not know," he admits at length. "We cannot return to Kirkwall."

"And wherever we go, Marian needs to find us," Bethany murmurs. Checking the bandaging over, her face is mere inches from his, and at this proximity he can practically hear the worry in her voice.

"She will find us," he assures her. He has never had anything but full confidence in the Champion's abilities – he knows that so long as she is searching, she will find her way back to them.

Bethany sinks back on her heels, and with a sigh she begins to clean his blood from her hands. "I hope so," she says quietly. Ever practical, she is on her feet again the moment that she has discarded the bloody rag, and she digs in her packs for some moments until she can produce a folded map and a battered compass. "How far off of our original path do you think we went last night?" she asks,  bringing them back and setting them down before Fenris.

Grateful that he will not have to stand just yet, Fenris shifts so that his legs are crossed before him, and takes some time to study the ink lines and borders. They had agreed on no definite plans, but Fenris thought that Hawke had intended to lead them west along the Imperial Highway, past Cumberland and Val Chevin and into Orlais. He had, in his mind, questioned how wise it would be to take an elf into a country that so openly flaunted its elvhen slaves, but the subject had never arisen, and so he had held his tongue.

Now that he looks at the map, however, he can see that Hawke may have had different plans. There are no helpful notes on the vellum, but there are the faintest traces of ink where a pen has tapped its way thoughtfully along roads and highways – faint scores in the thin leather where a blunt nail has traced a potential path. He can see now that they have definitely been heading west, but more likely to the docks of Cumberland where a ferry can take them across the Waking Sea and to Ferelden beyond.

Bethany must have seen his concentration, for she leans in also, following the edge of his blunt finger as he traces the same roads that Hawke has been planning. The moment that she makes sense of them she inhales softly, shifting a little closer. "She was taking us to Ferelden," she says. She cannot hide the rising note of excitement in her voice – it is no secret that she has missed her homeland.

"Would that be a wise idea?" Fenris cannot help but check. If Hawke has become notorious within the Free Marches, it is likely that she will be infamous in her homeland. There will be little way for any of them to escape recognition there – although, perhaps, she has put her hopes in the thought that her countrymen might hide them where the Free Marchers would sell them out for the city's coin.

Before he can voice any further concerns, Bethany is speaking again. "I know what to do," she says, surprising him once more with her confidence. Perhaps Hawke is finally rubbing off on her – or perhaps she has always been this strong, and he simply has not noticed.

"Come on," she says, folding the map and pushing herself to her feet. "I know where she'll find us again."


End file.
